Текст книги "A Stitch in Time "

Автор книги: Andrew Robinson

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“Why not? Aren’t they worth talking about?” he asked with a serious face. I had no idea how to respond.

“You’re confusing him, Barkan. That’s not very nice.”

“My apologies. Believe me, Ten, I would have been surprised if you had.”

“But Drabar thought he had,” she said.

“No, actually, it was Two Charaban,” he replied.

“So this ‘security check’ is now common knowledge,” she wryly observed. I had the same thought.

“This is as far as it goes,” he assured her. Palandine nodded in response, giving him a last careful look. Charaban smiled back with an openness that seemed to answer her concern. He sat down on a rock, gave me a look that was more a reappraisal, and then looked away. In the ensuing silence, each of us became involved with our own private thoughts. In the corner where she sat cross‑legged, Palandine studied her exquisitely shaped hands. Now, with the three of us, the dynamic in the enclosure had changed, and we were all adjusting. I no longer had Palandine to myself–but surprisingly, I didn’t mind, in fact I was pleased that Charaban was here. His stillness, like everything else about him, had grace and strength. I sneaked another look in his direction and marveled that this was the same person I had first encountered in the storeroom. He returned my look, and in the next few moments a bond grew between us that I had never thought possible. The whooshing flap of a night bird pulled our attention up to the section of glimmering sky that was visible.

“I love the Blind Moon,” Charaban said softly.

“Why is it called that?” I asked, deeply relieved by the mysterious change that had come over us.

“It’s the time for lovers’ assignations,” Palandine answered. “The moon will give them enough light to meet, but not so much for them to be discovered.”

“So if you and Elim were true lovers I wouldn’t have been able to find you,” Charaban teased.

“That’s right, Barkan,” she said with a direct look. I shifted position in the ensuing silence and tried to hide my disappointment with Palandine’s reply, but at the same time, the pleasure I felt in the company of these two people kept growing.

“See?” Palandine suddenly addressed me. “You cando it.”

“What?” I was startled by her delighted burst.

“Smile. Look at that, Barkan. Wouldn’t you tell someone with that smile everything he wanted to know?” she demanded.

“The first time I met him–well, the second . . .” he corrected himself, “he had a smile that I wanted to wipe off his face.” He was referring to that early morning in front of the Central Gate.

“But it wasn’t thatsmile,” Palandine insisted.

“No,” he conceded. “Definitely not that one.” And the truth was that I could feel this smile throughout my entire body.

We settled into another silence that lasted until the Blind Moon disappeared behind the foliage. I was certain at the time that for each of us this silent gathering was a precious respite from the relentless strivings of Bamarren ambition. There were other such gatherings, but this was the one that I will take with me to the Hall of Memories. If I could have stopped time . . .

17

Entry:

Today I thought I’d have lunch at the recently reopened Klingon establishment in honor of my new friend from the Jeffries tube, who turns out to be a nephew of General Martok. As I made my way through the Promenade–which gets more congested every day–I thought of the dabo girl, Tir Remara, and wondered why her name was so familiar. Odo said she wanted to see me to express her gratitude, and I laughed at the irony: a Bajoran wanting to thank a Cardassian. On a sudden impulse, I redirected myself to Quark’s.

When I entered the bar, Quark smirked at me. “The savior of dabo girls. You know, Garak, you used to have a wonderful reputation as someone who minded his own business. What happened? Was it a bad brand of kanar?”

“No worse than usual,” I smiled. A master of compassion, our friend Quark. But judging from the large and loud group of Klingons present, he needn’t have worried about a drop in business.

Remara saw me, and we made eye contact. She finished paying out latinum from the last spin of the wheel, motioned to another girl to take over the table, and approached me. Quark was not pleased.

“Make it fast, Remara. The Klingons are here for you–not Byla.” Quark stayed as if to monitor our conversation, but Remara just looked at him with a level, clear expression. He blinked.

“You heard me.” And he moved away. When she turned those clear, gray eyes to me, I immediately understood why so many people wanted to play dabo when she was spinning the wheel.

“Thank you. For yesterday,” she said simply.

“Well, I . . . I don’t think. . . .” I was astounded–I couldn’t get a clear sentence out of my mouth. But she knew what I was going to say.

“He was very drunk and he was going to hurt me. He’s not a bad man, but he’s the type who’s dangerous past a certain point.”

I could only nod in agreement. She was older than I had originally thought, and clearly more intelligent than the usual dabo girl. Girl. She was as much of a girl as I was a boy. Other than Leeta, this was the first dabo woman I had ever seen. I’m sure her popularity among the Klingons must be immense, otherwise Quark would never allow such intelligence and maturity to spin the wheel. As I stood there, I totally forgot that she was wearing that silly skimpy outfit. Her poise, the directness of her gaze . . . I also forgot that she was a Bajoran.

“I have to return to work, but I’d like to talk with you. We had a mutual friend. I’m done after the second shift–is that too late for you?”

“N‑no. No, not at all.” My lips were betraying me. I sounded like Rom. “Shall I meet you here?”

“No. The observation lounge on the second level.”

As she went back to the table I noticed Major Kira sitting in the corner. She was giving me the same look she had used whenever I had been in the company of Ziyal. Because of those hard, impenetrable eyes, I can only imagine what she thought of this exchange. I nodded and . . . smiled.

It was late, and there were few people on the second level. As I waited in the observation lounge it came to me why Remara’s name was familiar–she’d been a friend of Ziyal. I remembered now Ziyal saying that Remara was some kind of teacher on Bajor, and that she occasionally worked as a dabo girl to support her family. When she’d made enough latinum she’d return to her life on Bajor. Quark put up with this arrangement because her statuesque beauty attracted many people–not just Klingons, and not just men–to the dabo table. Even those who never played.

“Thank you for coming.” Her voice came from behind me. I jumped up from my chair, surprised. She was standing there in a tasteful but modest frock. Without her dabo‑girl shoes we stood eye to eye. Her face was scrubbed clean of the makeup and her hair was unpinned, falling below her shoulders. It was somewhat darker now, and I wondered if she lightened it somehow when she was working. There was also a distance in her look which, coupled with her directness, created an odd dynamic. The distance challenged you to work yourself closer–if you had the courage.

“You surprised me,” I said, reminding myself to breathe. “I expected you to come from the other direction.”

“I wanted to get out of my child’s costume. I hope you’re not disappointed.”

“Please,” I laughed. “I’m relieved. To be truthful, I’m not terribly comfortable around those outfits.”

“Really? Are they too revealing for you?” she asked.

“Not at all. The design puts my teeth on edge.” It was her turn to laugh.

“Amazing, isn’t it? People seem to love the way they look.”

“I don’t think it’s the way the costume looks that they love,” I offered.

“Well,” she smiled modestly, “I’m not complaining. It keeps the dabo wheel spinning.”

“Which pleases Quark to no end,” I added.

“Indeed.” She took one of the chairs, and I sat in one across from her.

“Elim, isn’t it?”

“Yes. Elim Garak.”

“Ziyal spoke well of you. She was particularly grateful for your kindness. This always intrigued me.”

“Why?” I asked, knowing full well what was coming.

“You’re a Cardassian.”

“There’s nothing I can do about that, I’m afraid.” We looked at each other for a long moment, and the distance felt even greater. I wondered if anyone had ever made the crossing.

“I think Ziyal once mentioned that you were a teacher.” I shifted the focus onto her. “

In a manner of speaking. I’m a counselor. When I’m not being a dabo girl, of course. My work here is to counsel people out of their latinum.”

“And on Bajor?” I asked.

“I counsel people out of their nightmares from the Occupation,” she said, without any inflection.

“Ah,” I replied, with as genial a smile as I could muster.

“And you’re a tailor.”

“I am.”

“Have you always been a tailor?”

“Has anyone always been anything?”

“Were you trained as one?”

“In a manner of speaking. For that and other things.”

“Like?”

“I worked as a gardener for a period,” I replied. She was unapologetic about her questions. Either she had a great appetite for information about other people . . . or something else was going on.

“I love to garden,” she said.

“Really? You’re very fortunate then. Bajor has a salubrious climate for growing things.”

“Oh. So you’ve been to Bajor?” she asked.

“No. Not really.”

“ ‘Not really’?” she repeated with a bemused look.

“I stopped over . . . once. On the way here actually. Just long enough to transfer to a shuttle. But your climate is well known.”

“In Cardassia,” she added.

“Yes. Among other places, I’m sure.” A game was in full operation now, and I felt excited and challenged to find out just what the game was.

“What’s your favorite plant?” she asked.

“The Edosian orchid,” I replied without thinking.

“Yes,” she nodded. “It has an extraordinary blossom.”

“Have you grown them?” I asked.

“No, I’m afraid I don’t have the patience.”

“It’s not so much patience, I think, as it is the willingness to live with their mystery.”

“How do you mean?” She was a genuinely curious person.

“They’re deceptive. They appear to be rather common at first, but if they’re treated well . . . if you watch for the clues carefully . . . they’ll almost tell you how to grow them.”

“Ah, but I was never under the impression that they were common.” Her smile was deeply engaging, and I felt somehow that the distance had narrowed. We had come to an understanding.

“But I must get some sleep. The dabo tables spin early tomorrow and I’m on a shuttle back to Bajor in the evening.”

We rose. She held her hand out to me. It’s an unaccustomed gesture for me, but I took it. Her grip was warm and firm; my senses were alert.

“When you return, I hope you’ll visit my shop. I’d be happy to serve you in any way,” I said.

“That’s very kind. Thank you, Elim.” A familiar, pleasant sensation went through me when she said my name. “And I, too, would be pleased to serve you however I could.” She squeezed my hand slightly and left the way she came. The understanding, I thought as I watched her graceful strength move away, was that this was only the beginning of the game.

18

Entry:

A strong wind blew just before sunset and I hoped that it would continue; it would make our task of getting past the Ramaklan flanks much easier. But as soon as the sun dipped below the horizon behind us the wind stopped, and the darkening Wilderness was preserved in a resounding stillness. I took a deep breath.

“Lubak!” Charaban growled with his gruffest voice. I stepped forward from the mass of our troops who were standing in formation in front of the Eastern Gate, and marched up to Charaban who was flanked by Drabar and fat Charaban. It always amazed me how he was able to transform himself and become whatever person the situation–the context–demanded he be. I wondered if Charaban was part regnar.

“We’ll wait for your signal, Lubak, but if there’s any indication that your teams have been exposed, we’ll attack. In that case you must do whatever is necessary to prevent their flanks from collapsing in on us. Understood?”

“Yes, One Charaban!” I replied.

“Position your men and begin,” he ordered.

I nodded to Eight, and he stepped forward with his team, Five and Seven. I could see that Seven was wide‑eyed with tension, but Eight had assured me that he was ready to fight. Five appeared as solid as ever. Eight gave me a last look before he led his team to the north and disappeared in the gathering darkness. I motioned to Three and Four, and they stepped forward from the ranks. Four looked typically bored, but Three surprised me with his apparent calm. He had been a difficult student during the training sessions, and I was anxious about his performance.

“For the Empire!” Charaban growled.

“Victory!” we roared in answer.

As the main troops deployed, I led my team south to a predetermined rock formation. These were the last rocks we would have as cover until we met the enemy. Before us was the exposed desert slope that led to the enemy position. We had been instructed to wait here until the first assault probe was launched. This probe consisted of a small team that would be sent right up the middle of the slope and straight toward the enemy redoubt. The purpose of the probe was to draw enemy fire, during which we would hopefully get an idea of how their defenses were aligned and then begin our own advance during the brief engagement. The probe, of course, was a purely tactical move and had no chance of success. We scanned the now moon‑saturated darkness as we waited for our moment.

“Last equipment check,” I whispered.

“Ready,” Four replied after a moment.

“Three?” Did he hear me?

“What?” he snapped.

“Equipment check!”

“Yes, I’m ready! How many times are you going to ask?” Three hated the fact that I was in charge, and during the training he had grudgingly taken instruction when he realized that mastery of my stealth techniques was absolutely necessary for success. He wasn’t bright, but he was ambitious, and he was hoping for a number One designation at the next evaluation.

Response to the probe should have happened already; it was being launched as we moved out. I could only guess that the enemy–aware of the tactic–was allowing the probe to penetrate as deeply as possible until it nearly reached the redoubt, at which point it could be intercepted without the flanks ever revealing themselves. The probe had been Two Charaban’s idea, and when I’d brought up this lack of enemy response as a possibility he’d dismissed it.

“What’s going on?” Four demanded, with more concern in his voice than I’d ever heard. He was a clever operator, very observant; he gauged the temperature of any given situation and acted accordingly. He wasn’t as accomplished as Charaban in this regard, and you never knew where his true loyalty was, but he always took care of himself.

“Nothing’s going on that’s going to help us,” I replied, concerned that we were losing precious time. “Let’s go.”

“We’re supposed to wait for the engagement,” Three resisted.

“Let’s go–that’s an order!” I was the leader, Charaban had told me during the last planning session, and I must never allow a challenge to compromise my position. “Triangulate. I’m in front, Four rear right, Three rear left.” I wanted to keep Three as far away from the enemy flank as possible, since he was the biggest and least adept at stealth.

We began the slow crawl. I immediately flattened and spread my consciousness, feeling my breathing respond accordingly: movement only on a long outgoing breath, complete stillness on the intake. The three of us had to be synchronized, and I could feel Four adapt beautifully to my pattern. Three struggled, as I knew he would at the beginning, but with Four and me holding the pattern he was able to settle in. We moved as one.

We heard the response to the probe, and as I had anticipated it revealed nothing about the flanks–at least on our southern side. I had no idea how they would angle the flank out from the central defensive position, and this meant we had to proceed with extreme vigilance from the beginning. My only concern was not with the moonlight–even with the ghostly illumination we could blend in well enough–but with the total lack of wind, unusual for the Mekar. Four and I made almost no sound, but Three’s bulk made enough of a dragging sound in the sand to warrant concern.

Then I heard a sound coming from the darkness in front of us: I had forgotten that the lack of wind could also work to our advantage. It couldn’t be their flank, it was too soon. And why were they moving? We stopped and listened as the sound, a slow and muffled crunching, came closer and extended from right to left. The flank was moving toward us! I could make out the shadowy outlines of enemy soldiers, evenly spaced and moving with precise coordination in order to minimize all sound. It appeared that the flank was executing a hinging maneuver that would sweep its southern side. If the northern flank was doing the same maneuver, then both flanks, connected to the central redoubt, could conceivably meet in the middle. But this kind of pincer movement could leave them exposed to being outflanked, unless–

They were almost on top of us. This was our first test. I prayed that Three and Four were focused, and that . . . . An enemy foot came down next to my head; the other foot brushed my side pack. I could hear Three’s breathing turn ragged, but thankfully the passing crunch, crunch, crunch was dominant. They passed . . . and I waited to see if there was any activity from the north that would indicate exposure of the other team. Nothing but the receding crunch, crunch, crunch. Three’s breathing began to settle, and we moved ahead.

Time becomes meaningless working with this kind of concentration; only objects and events mark progress. But I knew our coordination was strong and sustained. This had been my concern from the beginning of training. It’s one thing to work by oneself, it’s another to get a unit to work as one. But when it happens, the mystery is how the flattened and spread energy of each is transformed into the energy field that sustains and propels all.

At one point we encountered a much thinner and fixed line of sentinels who were guarding against any outflanking Charaban maneuver. By then we were so well coordinated that there wasn’t a ripple of anxiety in our unified field as we passed them. Just as I was beginning to hope that perhaps we would have a clear path to the redoubt, again I heard the faint crunch, crunch, crunch from behind us. The hinge was swinging both ways.

We stopped, and returning anxiety dissolved our unity. As we waited, I could feel the night chill creeping into my body and creating a tremulous reaction. The more I tried to resist, the more I trembled. I was now afraid that my cooling body would betray me to the approaching soldiers, who were just behind us. I was planning how I would respond to being discovered when the soft crunching sound stopped. We waited, in a long silence broken only by the distant cry of a night hongehunting for prey. My trembling became worse. No matter how I tried to employ my technique, my body was too chilled to respond. I wondered if Three and Four were also struggling; I had lost contact with them.

Suddenly the crunching sound began again. I put my hand on my phaser. I was on the verge of jumping up and taking out as many of the enemy as I could. But now the sound was receding. We must have gone beyond the limit of the flank’s hinging arc. Yes, they were moving back in the other direction. That meant we now had a clear path to a position behind the redoubt from which we could stage our attack. If only Eight’s group had also eluded their flank.

We moved ahead at a faster pace. I wasn’t sure how much time we had before light, but I knew it wasn’t much. The Ramaklan had positioned their defenses so that the sun would rise in the eyes of Charaban’s attacking force. We had to time our diversionary action so that they would have the same problem when they faced us. If they were blinded by the first rays of sunlight hitting them at eye level, that would wipe out some of their advantage. Once again the three of us moved as one, and I began to feel more confident. I speeded our pace until I sensed that we were close to the redoubt. I stopped, took out my night vision lens, and there it was–the distinctive outcropping of rock that faced our side. We had calculated correctly, and there wasn’t much more distance to travel. Judging from the faint ghosting of light on the horizon line, there also wasn’t much time before we became visible. We started our final move around to the rear of the rock. The ghosting light was also creeping toward the redoubt, and the slight movement of a solar wind began to stir the air around us. I was aware that the success of the mission now depended on how well we were able to work with the elements. Or I thought I was aware.

Just as I was looking for Eight’s group and a place to stop, a faint and sudden shadow accompanied by a whooshing sound and slap of air flew by my head. My heart leaped into my mouth; I thought we were being attacked. And we were, but not by the Ramaklan. I looked up, and a swad of hongewere taking advantage of the faint light to do some hunting–we must have looked like well‑fed sand worms. I could now make out the outlines of Three and Four.

“Cover your heads and stay still,” I whispered. “They’ll pass.” I pulled my sun cover down and curled up. I felt a sharp, painful stab on my shoulder, but I didn’t react. I wanted them to pass without drawing the attention of the enemy.

“Get away! Get away from me!” Three was on his feet, screaming at the attacking hongewho were screaming in response. His huge form was now the focus of their attention, as he waved his phaser and tried to take aim. He stumbled over Four.

“Get down, Three! We’ll be spotted!” I whispered hoarsely, but I knew it was too late.

“Who’s there?” a Ramaklan soldier called out from the rock.

“What are we going to do? They know we’re here!” Four’s eyes were enormous. Three was still doing his grotesque dance to ward off the honge,who were cut‑ting and slashing from all directions. The predators obviously had drawn blood and were going for more. The light was growing stronger; we had to take some action.

“Declare yourself or we’ll fire,” the same Remaklan voice demanded.

“Cover me,” I told Four.

“What are you going to do?” he asked.

“Just keep the hongeoff me!” I jumped up. “It’s all right! We’ve got him!” I announced. “It’s a single Charaban probe! We’ve got him!” I could barely make out figures above the rock line. I fired my phaser at a hongeslashing toward my face. It went down. Four hit another. Three let out a horrible scream. I was desperately looking for Eight’s team.

“Who are you?” another voice asked from the rock.

“One Lubak!” I lied. “Ramaklan flank. The Charaban probe was attacked by honge.”The hongehad been driven off by the phaser fire, and Three was now eerily silent. He turned to me, and the right side of his face was covered in blood. When I looked closer I could see that the eye socket was empty. He was in shock, and totally disoriented. I aimed my phaser and stunned him into unconsciousness.

“What are you doing, Ten?” Four cried out.

“He’s under control!” I yelled to the rock.

“Bring him in!” the second voice ordered. I wondered if this was One Ramaklan.

“We’re coming!” I answered. I started to lift Three, but his dead weight was impossible. “Help me, Four.”

“You’re not going to bring him to them?” He was incredulous.

“No, weare. Now help me!” I ordered. Four hesitated. “We have no choice. We use him as cover to get there and then begin our attack. That’s our assignment. Now help me or you’re on report!”

Four got up, looked around fearfully for any remaining hongeand then helped me lift the huge body. It was then he saw Three’s right eye was missing. He nearly lost his hold.

“Steady, Four!”

“His eye!”

“We’re coming,” I yelled. “Let’s go,” I said to the horrified Four. As we struggled to the rock, trying to keep the body in front of us–to mask our Charaban‑green uniforms as opposed to the Ramaklan black–I detected movement to my right. Let it be Eight,I thought.

“As soon as we get close enough, we have to force our way inside before they can use their phasers. Use Three as a shield.” I was almost breathless with effort, and Four could only grunt in response.

Just as we approached the rock, I could see that three or four Ramaklan soldiers were massed at an opening, waiting for us. About twenty paces away, sunlight suddenly beamed straight past us and lit up their bodies and faces as the sun came over the horizon behind us. The timing couldn’t have been better.

“Steady, Four. On my signal,” I whispered with what little breath I had left. We came closer; there were four of them, very distinct in their identifying black vests, shielding their eyes and training their phasers on us.

“Stop,” one of them said. We were five paces away. “Put the body down,” he instructed.

“Of course,” I replied. “Don’t let go,” I whispered to Four. I began to stumble toward them as if I had lost my balance.

“Stop!” the voice repeated.

“I’m sorry. I lost my footing,” I apologized. We were two paces away.

“Wait! He’s not . . .” one of them began to say.

“Now!” I cried, and using Three as a barrier, Four and I pushed through the opening and knocked at least two of them over before they could use their phasers. We were inside–and the fight had begun in earnest.

“Here they come!” I heard someone yell, and in the chaos that followed I couldn’t be sure if he meant us, Eight’s team, or the main force. All I know is that Four and I immediately moved into a shifting tandem strategem, and we fought like we were possessed by the spirit and strength of many. The advantage of surprise was ours. Fear and pumping fluids fueled us. It became a blur of action and reaction, parry and blow, shift and stand, attack and defend; there was no space in between, no moment of thought or pause. I was hit several times, but I felt nothing. At one point, I saw Seven fighting like a screech crake and I fought even harder, encouraged by his ferocity of heart, which I had doubted.

“Over here, Ten!” I followed the call for help without hesitation. I had lost Four, but by now the main force had joined the fray, and the fighting was scattered over the entire area. It was fat Charaban being pummeled by three Ramaklan soldiers. He was doing his best and moving with surprising agility, but to no avail. I grabbed one and threw him off, but before I could turn back I was picked up from behind like I was a baby and tossed hard against a rock face. The air was crushed out of me, and I was on my hands and knees desperately trying to draw it back in, but before I could fat Charaban was thrown on top of me, and I began to suffocate. This was my worst fear. Besides the memory of Tain’s punishment, I was tortured by nightmares in which I was buried alive. A red, insane surge of energy came from somewhere inside me, and with a scream I threw Two Charaban off me, grabbed the closest Ramaklan–who was twice my size and was probably the one who’d thrown me against the rock–and used every skill I had learned in the Pit to punish him for bringing me face‑to‑face with my nightmare death. The expression on the big Ramaklan was one of shock and incomprehension as I hit and kicked and elbowed and gouged. The action had become suspended in another reality. Everything else dropped away as this student became the focus for all my rage and fear. Suddenly I felt hands all over my body and I was pulled away.

“That’s enough, Ten!” I heard a familiar voice say.

“No, it’s not enough!” I didn’t recognize my voice; I thought someone else had spoken for me. It wasn’t until the hands had gotten control of me that my anger began to subside and I came back from wherever I had gone. The faces of the people holding me back began to look familiar. The first one I saw was Eight.

“Didn’t you hear the signal? We’ve won.” He was looking at me with real concern. My face felt wet, and I wondered where the moisture had come from. I wanted to ask him–I wanted to ask him what had happened. I knew, looking in Eight’s eyes, that he would always tell me truth. But I didn’t ask. I felt ashamed.

“It’s over, Lubak!” This time I recognized Charaban. “It’s over.” Or I thought I recognized him. This was yet another Charaban, but this one was a slightly distorted image of the original. It’s a mask, I thought. Then I remembered what had happened to me underneath Two Charaban’s massive bulk, trying to draw breath. And I realized that the moisture on my face was my tears.

“Get up, Lubak,” he said with a hearty and somewhat wooden jocularity. It’s a new mask; it didn’t have his usual grace. “We’re heroes.” He turned to the gathering crowd. “We’ve broken all records for the Competition!” he announced. “Victory!” He thrust his fist to the sky.

“Victory!” the crowd repeated.

“For the Empire!” Charaban thrust again.

“Victory!” They responded even louder. It was astounding. The mask was softening and integrating into the rest of Charaban. As he interacted with the crowd of students, as he accepted their adulation and fealty, I could see that he was taking ownership of this new persona with increasing confidence. Could anyone else see this? I looked around. I was surrounded by masks. I looked at Eight. His mask was stoic, but his eyes were always there, constant. Did he see what I saw? Palandine would laugh at such a question. How could he, I answered myself–he has his own eyes. I struggled to my feet, with Eight’s help. My body felt broken beyond repair.

“Breathe. Don’t stop breathing–no matter how much it hurts,” Eight instructed. I tried to follow his directive, and gasped as the air turned into broken glass as it entered my lungs. I desperately wanted to share in the joy of victory I saw on the faces surrounding me, but the moment was so mixed with physical pain–and with another, more complicated feeling. I didn’t like what had happened to me when fat Charaban’s body had nearly swallowed me–being overcome by the fear of never drawing breath again. I was also disturbed by what I saw in Charaban’s face, and somehow, vaguely, the two were related. I tried to shake off these feelings and thoughts and join in the celebration. And with Eight’s help, I was able to pull myself back into this moment of triumph.